


Transatlanticism

by RubySoho



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubySoho/pseuds/RubySoho
Summary: Season 4 AU. The Bates' marriage is in disarray following the house party. When an unexpected trip to New York beckons, will they discover that some oceans are simply too great to be crossed?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in the middle of the night (as all ideas inevitably do) and wouldn't let go. Set loosely around 4x04 and comes with all associated content warning, but veers frantically AU almost immediately. 
> 
> I was and remain quite sad that we never got to see Anna and Bates working through the emotional aftermath of her assault, so it's something I've always wanted to explore in fic. I hope I do it justice.

It’s been a month.

A whole month since they'd walked through the grounds, hand in hand, with spring in the air and promises for the year ahead nestled in the sheets. A whole month since he’d returned to a shell of a wife, who’d spent the bare minimum of time in their bed and vanished in the grey morning light.

Anna might have moved back to the Abbey, but she haunts him nightly in the cottage. Every look of fear and horror and misery that she can’t quite mask follows him home

_even though it isn't home, not any more, not without her_

and he tortures himself, penance for his ignorance as the lamp burns low, leaving him exhausted and frustrated and heartsick. He knows he's missing some fatal misstep on his part, but all he can come up with is their quarrel over the card game. And they’d been on reasonable terms during the concert.

_hadn't they?_

He should have gone with her. Something happened to her down there on her own, something to cause her injury, and bad leg or not, god knows he’d have done anything to stop her from coming to harm -

“We’re going to America,” His Lordship says by way of greeting the moment he enters the dressing room.

And just like that, John Bates’ world fall apart again.

* * *

Anna broke her arm when she was four. She'd taken careful inventory of the pain and stiffness in the bone and muscle, the way it felt better every day over the weeks until her arm was back to normal. Good as new.

Every morning for the past months she's watched her body heal. The bruises have faded, replaced by skin that never quite stops being grey. The marks where she'd cut her lip and forehead stand out against her pallid complexion, but they too have closed over. The pain when she walks, when she sits, has dwindled.

But the agony that cleaves her soul never leaves her.

Guilt, shame and grief war within her every waking moment. She misses her husband, misses him fiercely, but she's too cowardly to face down the self-loathing that flares whenever he turns those eyes upon her. She doesn't deserve his love, not anymore.

_but he doesn't deserve this, you beast_

Lady Mary is in good spirits this morning, and Anna tries her best to smile back. Her mistress already suspects something is gravely wrong, both with her and with her marriage, and while she’s absolutely right Anna can’t bear the questions, the gentle offers of support. She deserves none of it, and she's not sure she's strong enough to endure the guilt.

“Anna?”

She nearly drops the gown she’s holding.

"Where were you?" Lady Mary says. There's genuine concern in her tone.

“Sorry, milady,” she offers. “I’m...just tired.”

The words fall out before she can stop them, and she kicks herself.

“Anna..." Lady Mary says haltingly. "Is everything all right Carson tells me you’re still in your old room, but Baxter’s been here for a while now...”

_better a broken heart than a broken neck_

“It’s just easier, milady.”

A little part of her cringes at the desperation in her voice, but it has the desired effect. They descend into an uneasy silence, as Anna works on her mistress’ hair while avoiding her gaze in the mirror.

“The thing is, Anna,” Lady Mary says finally, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Papa received a letter this morning, from America. It seems Uncle Harold has gotten himself into a spot of bother, and Papa’s to go out there and help sort it out.”

Anna freezes with her back to the mirror.

“To America?” She says. Her heart starts to thump in her throat.

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Bates...”

“Will be accompanying him, yes. But Grandmama wants to meet George, and Papa wants the company, so I'm to go with them. I hate to bring this up if something’s gone wrong between you and Bates, but...”

For a second she thinks her legs might give way beneath her. Clutching the back of the chair, she blinks back the tunnel vision as horror seeps through her.

“When do we leave?” She says faintly.

“Tomorrow,” Lady Mary says. “But Anna-“

“Very good, milady,” Anna says briskly, pulling herself together as much as she can. “Will that be everything?”

_better a broken heart than a broken neck_

There’s a long pause, a searching gaze. One heartbeat, and then two.

Finally Lady Mary sighs and says “Yes, that’s everything. Thank you Anna.”

She gathers up the laundry, nods with a tight smile, and leaves.

It is only when she has closed the door behind her and started down the hall that she lets go, stifling a sob with the back of her hand as the world disappears from underneath her.

* * *

John leans heavily on the wall as he leave His Lordship’s dressing room. In any other situation the thought of a trip to America with his wife would have been beyond his wildest dreams. Now it feels like he’s been sentenced to imprisonment again.

Anna can hardly stand to be in the same room as him. Tomorrow they’ll board a ship, heading to a foreign country, and she will be trapped while he remains ignorant of whatever trespass he has committed. He swore when he found out she’d secured his release that ensuring her happiness would be his sole purpose. He has failed her, as he always maintained he would.

Worse, he is too ignorant to recognise how.

It is some small blessing that, aware of the problems that they’ve been having, His Lordship gently assured him that he would make sure he and Anna were in separate quarters. To stave off any awkwardness, he’d said gently. John had wanted to weep.

_Awkwardness._

There had never been awkwardness between them. Not like this. Not when they’d first met, not after she’d told him she loved him and he, fool that he was, had rebuffed her. Not even on their wedding night, when she’d been nervous and he’d been reduced to a trembling boy once more.

They had never been awkward. Anna had made sure of that, with her constant optimism and gentle hand. But now she's not there to guide him.

He is helpless.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes comes across her in a daze outside the servants' hall and sweeps her into her sitting room with a concerned look.

“I’m going to America,” she says, ignoring the proffered chair. The housekeeper looks horrified.

“What are you talking about?”

“His Lordship and Lady Mary...they’re going to stay with Mrs. Levinson,” Anna quavers. “They leave tomorrow morning.”

Something flickers over Mrs. Hughes' expression as the words sink in.

“His Lordship...so Mr. Bates will be going as well?”

Her husband's name is enough to crumble the final dam

_god, she loves him so_

and she sobs. There's a hand on her elbow, guiding her so she can sit down, but she barely feels it. Alone and in a strange place with the man whose heart she's breaking

_better a broken heart than a broken neck_

how can she bear it? How will either of them?

She jumps slightly as Mrs. Hughes dabs at her eyes with a damp flannel.

“Maybe this is a good thing?” She says gently. “A chance to get away, to put some distance between yourselves and this place...perhaps you can -”

“No, you don’t understand,” Anna says, in a voice thick with tears. “He doesn’t give up. Every morning he’s waiting for me, every time I walk into a room he looks at me like...like he’s seeing me for the first time all over again.”

“My dear girl,” Mrs Hughes says, sounding uncharacteristically stricken. "Is there anything I can do? Perhaps if I spoke to Lady Mary -"

"No!" Her chest constructs. "No, nobody must ever know. If Mr. Bates finds out -"

"Lady Mary wouldn't tell him, surely!"

"She might if he asked. I can't have him over there thinking about it Mrs. Hughes, it'll tear him apart, but if Lady Mary thought it would help..."

_i will find out_

Mrs. Hughes looks as though she's inclined to agree with Lady Mary, but she doesn't press the issue. Instead, the housekeeper lets her go with a sympathetic pat on the arm. Anna ignores the pleading look in her eyes.

_better a broken heart than a broken neck_

* * *

He's at the door to the servants' hall when she leaves the sitting room  
  
_waiting_

trying to catch her eye.

_wishing_

Tears make twin tracks down her cheeks, and she sees his expression change to one of abject agony before she hurries off without giving him a chance to catch up with her.

_hoping_


	2. Chapter 2

I.

Anna does not sleep that night.

Her insides twist as she trembles in the dark. Beyond getting away from the cottage, and the crippling shame she felt every time her husband set eyes on her, she hadn’t given much thought to the future. Her only goal was to survive the day she’d been given.

Even in her wildest thoughts, she knows she’d never have imagined this.

_America._

It’s scant comfort that they’ll be in separate cabins for the crossing. She’s travelled by boat before, to France for Lady Mary’s honeymoon

_back when she thought prison was the pinnacle of their sorrow_

and there are few places to hide, even on the great transatlantic liners.

John is not a stupid man, and he’s desperate for answers. It’s plain as day on his face whenever he catches a glimpse of her.

Not for the first time, she considers giving them to him. Maybe he’d say “oh, my darling” in that soft voice of his and pull her into his arms and make everything all right. Lord Gillingham and his valet are long gone, after all, and surely Mrs. Hughes would be able to warn her if they were due to return? Perhaps she could feign an illness that would require him to stay at home and see to her.

No. He’d see through that in an instant, keen as usually she is to avoid being a burden.

_and what if they stayed for more than a few days_

Even thinking about it makes the room spin. She pulls the covers up to her chin as she grits her teeth and tries to will herself to stop shaking.

The night stretches ahead of her, but the coming day will offer no respite.

* * *

II.

Lady Mary is nowhere to be seen. His Lordship makes small talk with Pratt as the chauffeur checks the tyres on the motor, and Anna stares at the front doors as her husband’s eyes burn into her. The silence between them is deafening.

_and his lordship must be mortified_

When Lady Mary finally appears, clutching a piece of paper, her face is set in a frown.

“Carson, I’ve just had a letter from Lord Gillingham,” she says. “It appears he’ll be travelling without a valet. Do you think Thomas be able to look after him while he’s here?”

“Of course, milady,” the butler bows and heads towards the doors.

_travelling without a valet_

Horror is replaced by a pang of wild hope. Following Lady Mary to the back of the car, Anna looks over her shoulder to make sure her husband isn’t nearby and asks “Has Lord Gillingham dismissed his valet, milady?”

Her voice is steadier than her heartbeat, but only just.

“What?” Lady Mary says, distracted. “Oh, no. Apparently the man was involved in an accident in London. Fell into the road and was run over. Poor chap. I’m not sure Lord Gillingham was altogether fond of him, but it’s a grisly end for anyone.”

The relief is so sudden and intense it steals her breath and blurs her vision.

_he’s dead it was an accident john is safe_

For a wild, brief moment, telling him and ending the nightmare for them both is a real possibility.

And then, as she watches him surreptitiously through the windows of the motor, reality hits once more.

There’s a subtle wilt to his posture, invisible to anyone but her. She’s spent so many years admiring his shoulders, his broad back, the sheer size of him as he commands every room he’s in without having to say a word. Now he reminds her of Atlas, bearing an anonymous burden she’s thrust upon him.

_what will it do to him if you tell him_

He’d wouldn’t leave her. Always loyal to a fault, even if he couldn’t bring himself to love her, he’d never leave her. But worse than her own shame would be his self-recrimination. She’s so holy to him that he’d never even consider blaming her

_and she is to blame_

_she went down there on her own_

_she snapped at john when he interrupted the game_

instead assuming some inherent fault in himself a a person.

Visions of their life stretch out in front of her, vast and soulless. The knowledge that she’d been taken by another man a constant shadow. Hollow gestures to keep up appearances in front of their colleagues. Miles of cold sheets as they lay awake in the dark, wrestling with the ruins of their marriage.

The engine of the motor roars into life.

She holds her silence.

* * *

 III.

The dock is busier than John expected. Children cry above the course Liverpudlian yells of sailors, parents pushing past embracing couples.

It all reminds uncomfortably of the ship to Africa. His mother had come to the docks to wave him off. Vera hadn’t.

Leaning heavily on his cane in case an errant child collides with him, he watches his wife in the evening light. She’s looking at the ship with an expression of pure misery, and his heart breaks anew. All night he’s tortured himself with thoughts of what could have been

_arm in arm on the deck_

_watching the start creep out in the cold Atlantic sky_

_wrapped in his jacket to ward off the ocean chill_

had he not failed her.

“Brings it back, doesn’t it Bates?” His Lordship murmurs in his ear, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Privately he thinks that His Lordship’s experience of war will never be comparable with what the common man faced, but he forces half a smile and says “it does indeed, milord.”

His Lordship follows his eyes. The next clap on the shoulder is a sympathetic one.

“Try not to dwell, Bates,” he says gently. “Maybe this is just what the two of you need, a chance to get away from everything. A change of scenery.”

The smile becomes a grimace.

“I hope so, milord,” he says wryly. “I very much hope so."

* * *

 IV.

The ship leaves Liverpool with only a slight delay. The only indication from the first class cabins is an increase in engine pitch and a slight jolt as it heads into the open water.

Settled and dressed for the smoking room, His Lordship bids him good evening cheerfully. John bows his head and heads to his quarters.

Upon rounding the corner at the end of the hall, he finds himself face to face with his wife.

Anna looks as though she’s found herself face to face with the barrel of a gun, wide-eyed and pale faced. Instinctively he opens his mouth to reassure her

_however whatever whenever_

but before he can find the words she’s fumbled with the lock on her cabin and disappeared with a slam of the door, leaving him with the ghost of her name on his tongue.

* * *

 V.

Anna collapses against the door with a staccato sigh of grief. The door to the next cabin opens and closes, and there’s the slightest creak of bedsprings. Then nothing.

The silence is oppressive.

Blinking away tears, she looks around her home for the next week. Spartan and wood-panelled, it’s a far cry from the stark white walls at Downton. She almost smiles as she drops her case next to the bed.

Any notion of smiling disappears once she spots the door set into the internal wall, adjoining the cabin with its neighbour.

There’s a lock, but the door looks insubstantial; there’s nothing stopping a man of John’s size from breaking it down if he wanted to.

 _john_ _is not a stupid man_ _and he’s desperate for answers_

Without taking her eyes away, Anna takes several trembling steps back. Her heels suddenly sound impossibly loud on the wooden floor. She stumbles on trembling legs, pressing her fingers to her mouth as her breath comes in short, sharp bursts -

Something solid hits her back and she’s unable to stop a whimper from escaping as she cringes

_it’s just the door_

half expecting him to burst in. She manages to grasp the doorknob, ready to make her escape if it comes down to it.

_he couldn’t outrun her_

_not with his knee_

And then somewhere in the fog of panic, she hears the achingly familiar sound of John’s shuffling steps as he limps around his room. She can track his movements as easily as if he was in front of her. He’s abandoned his cane, as he so often did during their evenings together in the cottage.

Pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the whimper that leaves her, she closes her eyes as the tears fall once more. John would never corner or chase her, or

_he's not him_

_force_ her to do anything.

_he's not him_

_he's not him_

_he's not him._

She weeps alone in a borrowed bedroom, watching the light under the door flicker as her husband wanders.


	3. Chapter 3

I.

They settle into an uneasy routine aboard the _Cameronia_. John waits for Anna to leave her cabin in the morning, and then counts to thirty before making his way to breakfast. When he moves around the ship he holds his head high and stares straight ahead, to avoid the possibility of accidentally making eye contact with her. He doesn’t want to frighten her any further, especially when she seemingly can’t bear to be around him.

_and he can’t bear the fear in her eyes_

They take their meals in the near-deserted saloon. John forces a a smile and nod for the other diners, trying to resist the urge to stare desperately at his estranged wife. She gives nothing away when he does.

He can’t quite shake the feeling that she's watching him constantly. A few times when he’s been running late he’s caught her at the door

_poised like a wild animal ready for flight_

and there’s a brief moment where she looks at him with frantic relief. She looks as though she might be on the verge of saying something

_god anna please say something_

and then her expression crumbles into the now-familiar agony and fear.

Every day he has to fight the urge to cross the room and pull her into his arms and make everything better. Instead, he ignores the shattering pain in his heart as he finishes breakfast, while his wife sits as far away from him as she possibly can.

* * *

II.

The way he folds his newspaper and rises stiffly from the table only increases Anna's guilt. The beds in the cabins are small and rather uncomfortable, and she can’t imagine it does his knee much good.

In happier times

_before_

she’d made a hot compress when it troubled him. Her fingers would run firmly down the tight muscles, and his grunt of relief would be music to her ears.

Those moments were all she’d craved

_before_

while he was in prison. The sheer domesticity of it, the way all sense of propriety disappeared as he let his head loll against the back of the chair, collar and tie discarded and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In the warmth of the firelight she’d rested her head against his thigh and he’d rubbed the back of her neck, and they’d simply existed quietly, wrapped up in each other.

_before_

Tears sting. Those times are gone, long gone. John still looks at her with such love, although it’s a broken, wary kind.

_a stray dog who craves affection but has been kicked too many times_

She wishes his gaze was harsher. She deserves it. And he deserves better.

When he leaves the room she counts to ten in her head and then follows. Making as little noise on the carpeted floor as possible, she creeps after him, keeping him just in sight. She daren’t walk alone, even the length of the corridor between the saloon and Lady Mary’s quarters, not when there are so many people on board.

He’s close enough for her to feel safe, her husband who’d be well within his rights to leave her to whatever fate befell her, but she’s never felt further away.

* * *

III.

They've been at sea for three days before the subject is raised again.

“How are things, Bates?” His Lordship says kindly as John fumbles with the cufflinks.

_bloody awful thank you milord_

"We're...coping," he says at length instead. He turns away to hide the sardonic smile. He’s not coping at all, and from the quick glances he’s managed to sneak at Anna he doesn’t think she is either. She looks painfully thin and her skin is almost translucent when she stands in the light.

_ghostly_

“Are you...”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

His Lordship looks troubled.

"I wish there was something I could do, Bates,” he says finally. “I know Mary’s tried to talk to Anna about it, but it doesn’t seem like she can get anything out of her either.”

Ordinarily John would have had to bite his tongue at the idea of their employers getting involved with sorting out their marriage - wounded pride has given him a propensity for lashing out in the past - but he finds that in this instance he’d quite happily let Lady Mary write a detailed account of their entire marriage if it meant figuring out where he'd gone wrong.

“I appreciate it, Milord,” he says at length. “It’s...I don’t...”

His Lordship meets his eyes in the mirror as he helps him into his jacket, and they’re the eyes of a comrade in arms, not an employer.

“Don’t give up just yet, Bates,” he says sincerely. “And whatever you need, whenever you need it, you only have to ask.”

John can’t help but smile wanly at that. For all his reliance on tradition and the way he balks at the idea of anything modern, His Lordship is probably the only one in the Crawley family who would even consider crossing the Great Divide and approaching his valet as a friend, rather than an employee. He’s grateful, but he’s not sure how much advice his Lordship, who’s wanted for nothing

Especially since he’s almost certain he’s at fault, and god knows His Lordship would never be able to put himself in his shoes.

“Thank you,” John says sincerely. “I really do appreciate it, Milord.”

“I know you do," His Lordship says. With a friendly clap on the back, he leaves for the dining room, and John is alone with his thoughts once more.

* * *

 

IV.

“How are things with you and Bates?”

The question takes Anna by surprise, and she finds herself looking anywhere but into the mirror.

_completely awful_

“They’re fine, Milady,” she manages to force out, careful not to meet her mistress’ eyes. She knows if she does she’ll crumble.

Lady Mary sighs.

“You do know you can talk to me, don’t you?” She said, not unkindly. "About anything that's troubling you. If I can help, I will."

“Milady, it wouldn’t be right - “

“Anna, I think we rather waved goodbye to propriety years ago, don’t you?”

_the dead weight of a body between them, unseeing eyes in the dark_

It's as though her body is too small for her soul all of a sudden. She grasps blindly for the wall as her legs threaten to give out and her chest gets tighter.

_and tighter and tighter and_

“Anna!”

She whimpers as a hand catches her elbow, and the pale, concerned face of her mistress appears. Her vision blurs around the edges and she squeaks in horror as she feels herself falling

_further and further and further_

until she feels herself guided onto the bed. She’s making quite the scene, but the more she tries to force it back the more it overtakes her.

“I’m going to fetch Bates,” Lady Mary says determinedly. Anna barely has time to catch her by the wrist as she turns to leave.

“Milady, please don’t." She forces out. "Please...”

The conflict is evident on her face, but she acquiesces and instead hands Anna a handkerchief that's so fine she's ashamed to use it.

“Has...has Bates done something?” Lady Mary says tentatively.

“What do you mean?”

Well, I mean – he hasn’t done anything to hurt you, has he?”

Anna lets out a wet laugh that turns into a sob.

“It’s just that it’s so unlike you,” Her mistress presses. “After all you went through when he was in prison, everything you did to free him...I can’t imagine anything could be irreparable.”

_of course you don’t milady_

_how could you possibly imagine_

It takes a couple of deep, shuddering breaths before she regains a shred of composure.

“No, Milady,” she says. “He’s done nothing.”

_except love you and try so hard_

"Will that be all?" Anna adds, pulling herself to her feet and trying to ignore the way the room spins.

Lady Mary arches one eyebrow.

"Yes, thank you Anna." she says. "Bear it in mind what I said though. You have my full support."

Anna nods and and ducks into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Her words are already taking root, rattling around as her heart thumps in tandem.

_I can’t imagine anything could be irreparable._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated this - a combination of other life stuff and some spectacularly poor health have gotten in the way. Sorry!
> 
> The previous three chapters (and most of this one) were also written while I was suffering from aforementioned poor health, so naturally I now hate them. Thank you for the kudos and comments regardless!

It’s a lonely business, being on board a ship. No mending to be done. No other work to be getting on with. Reading in his cabin holds little appeal.

_the idea of doing anything alone holds little appeal._

Instead, John wanders on the deck. There’s nothing but water in front of him, a thin blue line where the ocean meets the sky. Last time he’d been on a boat this large he’d been on the way to Africa, with his mother’s tears and Vera’s harsh words ringing. Looking out at the endless water had made his problems feel small and insignificant.

The engines hum and the sea spray crashes against the bow of the ship. John focuses on the horizon until his eyes hurt, searching for that peace once more. 

_still his heart aches for her._

Slow footsteps approach and he hopes, as he always does, but he’s still so taken aback he can only blink at Anna when she moves to stand beside him. Her hands are clasped in front of her, tension written in every line of her body. There’s an ocean of space between them.

_but she’s there_

“It reminds me of when I...when I went to France,” she says quietly, looking out over the jewel-topped waves. “You could see for miles, out to sea.”

“I haven’t been on a boat since Africa,” he says, surprising himself. He never speaks of the war. Not to his Lordship, who he fought alongside. Not to his wife.

_his demons are black enough to cripple him. he will not allow her to shoulder them as well_

He can tell from the sharp look she gives him that she’s taken aback as well, and for a moment she’s Anna again, _his_ Anna. At that moment he knows he’d tell her whatever she wanted to know if she asked, but instead she swallows hard and looks back over the water. She’s twisting her wedding ring round and round on her finger absently. He’s not sure when she picked that habit up.

He’s not sure how it makes him feel.

_At least she’s still wearing it_

He wants to ask how she is, but he knows she’d lie to him.

He wants to ask if she still loves him, but he’s scared she wouldn’t.

There’s something about her - something tightly wound and etched into every muscle - that’s so alien and unfamiliar it leaves him deeply uncomfortable. He longs to pull her into his arms until the tension that plagues her every waking moment dissipates.

“Anna...”

“Please don’t,” she whispers without looking at him. To his horror, her lip starts to tremble. “Please don’t now."

She's frightened and closed off, but she's _there_ , and he may never get another change.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” He asks tentatively.

He knows, from her expression, the answer before she speaks. 

* * *

_My God, what has she done to her husband?_

The stoic, impassive Army man who reserved all his tenderness for her. Now he looks like a boy trying hard to make a young girl happy, sweating desperation. It’s so alien that for a moment it’s like looking at a stranger.

And in that moment on the deck, she knows her marriage is over.

How can she start to try and move closer to him, to give him that hope? When every time he touches her she feels so unworthy and guilty she shies away, when every time she even thinks about accepting comfort or intimacy from him _his_ face appears. The man who ruined her life instead of the husband she loves more than anything, the feel of unfamiliar hands as he forced her arms behind her back.

_the feel of his mouth on hers_

“Anna?”

Jolting out of her thoughts, she realises she’s shaking and her knuckles are white on the deck barrier. John takes a hesitant step towards her, arm out as though offering to catch her if she falls.

She snatches her hands back, lip trembling.

“I have...things to do,” she says stiffly. His expression as she turns her back on him is too much to bear. It burns in her memory.

No, she cannot keep doing this to him. As much as the thought tears her apart, it's clearer now than ever before.

He must know.

* * *

He forgets himself for a moment. The grief is so agonising that he half staggers against the side of the ship and pinches the bridge of his nose, willing back tears. Again he runs through every interaction they’ve had – scant few – in the preceding weeks, looking for something

_anything_

he’s done to make her so frightened of him.

He loathes himself for his ignorance.

Not for the first time, John wonders if this is the end of their marriage, but somehow it’s more stark now they’ve left the Abbey, without the ghosts of happier times following them. He could at least pretend, as he stared at her empty seat in the servant’s hall, that she was simply late for luncheon and she’d arrive through the door and greet him with a smile at any moment.

He turns back to the water, the Atlantic breeze stinging as the tears fall.

* * *

By the time Anna gets back to her cabin she’s stumbling on trembling legs. As soon as she’s through the door she collapses onto the bed, pressing her fingers against her mouth as she heaves great wracking sobs.

_this is it this is the end of her marriage_

It’s a coward’s way out, she knows, to write him a letter, but to watch the shadow cross his face when she told him might well finish her off.

It takes her two attempts to start writing; she can’t see through the tears and they keep landing on the paper with a loud, final plop and smudging the already shaky words. In spite of her turmoil they come almost calmly, mechanically. She reigns in her desire to fill pages with apologies. As sorry as she is

_so sorry_

he deserves better than that, and she’d hate to make him feel obligated in any way towards her.

It all seems worse laid out in black and white.

She folds the letter with shaking fingers and manages, after several tries, to fit it into the envelope. Just as she moves to seal it, she catches a glint out of the corner of her eye.

Her wedding ring.

She whimpers and presses her fingers to her mouth. She has no right to his ring, not any more. To wear it implies a sacred union between man and wife, and that has long since shattered. He gave his ring to a different woman. A better woman.

_an unspoiled woman_

And, more than that, she knows it gives him hope. For as long as she wears it, he views her as his wife.

She hasn’t truly been his wife for a long time.

Her hands are shaking as she runs one finger along the band, and before she can change her mind she twists it off and drops it into the envelope with her letter. It makes a despondent thunk sound at the bottom of the envelope. Her finger burns where it once lay.

She has loved him for such a long time.

She hesitates for only a moment before sliding the envelope under the adjoining door.


End file.
